Addiction
by ABC-BTR
Summary: There are many types of addictions and most of them are bad. An addiction to a person? That's even worse, if only someone told Logan what he was getting himself into. Jagan. One-shot.


**Addiction.**

Well, I have no idea where this came from. It kinda just popped up and so, like, yeah. Here it is and it is my first Jagan and it's angst so that can't be a good sign.. I might become addicted to this. It's amazing to write. Yeah, oh the irony of it all..

Warning: Could be graphic? Just be warned. It ain't a T for nothing!

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He didn't even have time to see it. It came out of nowhere, well, it came from somewhere. Logan just hated to think about whose body that the hand connected to, the boy that was punching him. With a final yelp, Logan's body crumpled to the floor, hands desperate to hide his face from more bruises. More attacks.

From the boy he loved.

He squeezed his eyes shut, stars peppering the black canvas he could see. The pain scorched through his body, wrecking everything it set it's eyes on. Finally, he could hear James walk away calmly, followed by the slam of the wooden door to their bedroom. He stayed still for a minute, tears streaming down his violet face, head dizzy and confused from the lashing. It took everything for him not to go and curl himself into a ball and cry himself to sleep. Not that he would let him. James would make sure Logan suffered, only to apologise, promise he would change and then repeat the vicious circle that reduced Logan to where he was now.

Struggling to his feet, Logan staggered into the bathroom that connected to the bedroom, hand groping the wall for the light switch.

When he found it, light streamed into the room, blurring everything. Slowly, Logan made his way to the mirror, wondering what damage his boyfriend had done this time.

It wasn't pretty.

He stared at the boy he thought wasn't him, except, it was him. Just mutilated. Swollen, purple violets littered over his pale skin, colouring it. Some were thick with red lines, others only faint and made him still look reasonably normal.

But nothing was reasonably normal because his boyfriend was beating him. He was living in an abusive relationship that he couldn't get himself out of, because at the end of the day, James was his addiction. He was something he needed to be without, and yet, struggled to do just that. He needed James, despite the pain and problems that came with him. James always promised to change and that was something, an inkling, of what Logan believed would happen. But it wouldn't and even though he needed to realise it, he couldn't. He had to hang on to the truth that James, one day, would change.

It was the only thing keeping him alive anymore.

Sighing, Logan grabbed some toilet paper, rolled it into a ball, poured water on top and then dabbed his face. Each press caused him to hiss through gritted teeth, the pain swamping his body. It was nothing new, though. It was something he learned to live with over the time together.

He even remembered the first time it happened. James went out, came home massively drunk and then proceeded to blame all his woes and worries on Logan. It turned from verbal to physical, from love to hatred, from truth to broken promises. And that was something that destroyed Logan.

And yet, like an addiction, Logan just couldn't quit James.

He always promised to change. He wouldn't get drunk anymore, he wouldn't blame Logan for things that were out of his control.

But his promises were just like Logan; broken.

The vicious circle tormented Logan, filling him with false hope, only to destroy it in a bitter fight that Logan could never win. He knew that, and yet, blinded by what he thought was love, he stayed. He stayed for James, because deep down, the boy he fell in love with had changed. But he was somewhere in there, trapped, and Logan needed to free him. At any cost. Even if that meant risking everything for him.

Throwing the toilet paper ball in the toilet, Logan let out a conflicted sigh, filled with pain and hurt and annoyance and most of all, stupidity.

He fell for it again.

His hand slowly lifted into the medicine cupboard, finding a box of matches. They were for the candles in the bathroom, full of memories of two boys, in soapy, bubble filled water and ember flames dancing to the wind. It was peacefully, and now, they turned from an object to a friend. A friend that promised to take away the pain and return him to the memories he had left. To remind him why he stuck around through everything.

Sliding the box open, Logan's fingers curled around a match, lifting it out to be exposed. It sat there, between his fingers, talking to him, promising him that he could make it go away, even for a second. And like everything else, Logan believed it.

Striking the match against the side of the box, a light roared, golden flames coming to life. They swayed there, almost mockingly, showing freedom and promise.

He gritted his teeth, laying his arm out. Closing his eyes, he let the pain smother him, amber licking at his pale flesh, turning it red and then to black.

And in that second, he jumped back to happier times.

Times of candles and picnics, being courted by the most gorgeous boy he had ever seen, deep brown eyes staring into his own, muscular arms that lead him around the dancefloor, neon lights showering them. Baths and beds, couches and floors, nights where they dropped wherever, embraced in each others' arms, the only place they cared about. Cooked dinners, takeaways, ice-creams and corndogs. Funfair rides, sand and sea, walks through the woods.

His life was blissful.

And just like all the promises before, he was let down. The match broke the promise, returning him to reality, abandoning him as it finally extinguished, smothered against the now black skin. Slow, emotionless tears streamed down his face, splashing against his exposed skin. Through blurred vision, he stared at the mark that scarred his arm. He ran his fingers along it, hissing slightly at the pain. But one mark was followed by more, littering up his arm, more broken promises laid there, trying to heal.

Because like James, it became an addiction. And both were causing him pain.

He just didn't know how to quit.

Placing the matches back into the cupboard and rolling his sleeve down, hiding the mark, Logan left the enclosed area, battered, bruised and burned.

Sitting on the bed was the brown-eyed boy he fell in love with; James.

"Logan, I need to talk.."

His words were barely a mumble. His face was flushed with red, either anger or embarrassment. Logan puttered over, taking a seat. He crossed his arms over his chest, reserved, waiting to brace more pain that was bound to come.

"I'm sorry, Logan. I-I-I'm sorry.. I-I-I don't know w-what came over m-me.. I d-didn't mean to hurt y-you, I-I love y-you.."

Logan looked at him, noticing the tanned cheeks regaining their colour, eyes glossed with tears and an apologetic smile. Then, the words came like they always did.

"G-Give me one m-more chance, p-please?"

James leaped forward, wrapping his arms around Logan. Quickly, the shorter boy melted into his arms, his eyes staring out into the bedroom with a distant look. He was numb, had been for a while, all caused by James.

Because James was his addiction, and like addictions, he couldn't quit. No matter how deadly they could be.

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**For once, I didn't kill Logan, which I'm incredibly proud of since that happens quite often.. But he always endures pain in my story. It just makes them more adorable and cute, when they're vulnerable, you know?**

**Angst is my addiction. ;D**


End file.
